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CLEOPATRA. 18

AFTER DANBY'S PICTURE OF THE EGYPTIAN QUEEN

EMBARKING ON THE CYDNUS.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold:

Purple the sails; and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver;
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes.

SHAKSPEARE.

FLUTES in the sunny air!

And harps in the porphyry halls!

And a low, deep hum,—like a people's prayer,—

With its heart-breathed swells and falls!

And an echo,-like the desart's call,

Flung back to the shouting shores!

And the river's ripple, heard through all,
As it plays with the silver oars!—

The sky is a gleam of gold!

And the amber breezes float,

Like thoughts to be dreamed of—but never told,

Around the dancing boat!

She has stepped on the burning sand!

And the thousand tongues are mute!

And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand,

The strings of his gilded lute!

And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud and high,

Beneath his white symar,

And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye,

Like the flash of an Eastern star!

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The gales may not be heard,

Yet the silken streamers quiver,

And the vessel shoots-like a bright-plumed bird,—

Away-down the golden river!

Away by the lofty mount!

And away by the lonely shore!

And away by the gushing of many a fount,

Where fountains gush no more!—

Oh! for some warning vision, there,
Some voice that should have spoken
Of climes to be laid waste and bare,

And glad, young spirits broken!

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And hope and beauty blasted!

-That scenes so fair and hearts so gay

Should be so early wasted!

A dream of other days!—
That land is a desart, now!

And grief grew up, to dim the blaze
Upon that royal brow!

The whirlwind's burning wing hath cast

Blight on the marble plain,

And sorrow-like the Simoom-past

O'er Cleopatra's brain!

Too like her fervid clime, that bred

Its self-consuming fires,

Her breast-like Indian widows-fed

Its own funereal pyres!

-Not such the song her minstrels sing,"Live, beauteous, and for ever!" 19

As the vessel darts, with its purple wing, Away-down the golden river!

TO A BRAID OF HAIR,

TAKEN FROM A DEAD FOREHEAD.

BELOVED pledge of happier years,—
When life was in its bursting spring,
Ere love had learnt to speak in tears,
Or hope to stoop her eagle wing!—
Though dark and drear thy story, now,-
In sorrow shred-in sadness braided,—
And dim the eye and cold the brow
That, once, thy silken ringlet shaded,

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